


Masquerade

by Sed



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Anal Sex, Anonymous Sex, Clothing Porn, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Lunar Festival, M/M, Oral Sex, Public Blow Jobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:42:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22503454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sed/pseuds/Sed
Summary: Flynn comes to Stormwind to attend a Lunar Festival masquerade, and to look for something he's been after for a while.
Relationships: Flynn Fairwind/Mathias Shaw
Comments: 33
Kudos: 185





	Masquerade

**Author's Note:**

> I thought Lunar Festival deserved a little love. I really wish I could tell you all how much time I spent finding visual references for this fic.
> 
> So much gratitude to Cadoan, who helped me brainstorm this story.

Flynn wasn’t really sure _why_ he’d come; he didn’t dance and he certainly didn’t mingle.

Well, alright, fair’s fair—he mingled often enough to make a liar of him if he claimed otherwise, but never with the sort of polite company that he found himself in the midst of tonight. Most of the social gatherings he’d attended in his time were of a decidedly less… appropriate sort. And by appropriate he meant everyone present was, and would likely remain, fully clothed.

Although, judging by the way Lady Aranella was knocking back the Dalaran White, he had his doubts about how long that particular status quo would last.

If he was being honest with himself, which he didn’t like to do too often, he would admit that he’d come to the Eastern Kingdoms chasing an idea. A nagging intrigue that hadn’t yet abandoned him for clearer skies and safer waters, despite his many attempts to drown it in a tidal wave of whiskey. When Taelia had received an invitation to King Greymane’s fancy to-do in Stormwind, it seemed fate decided the matter for him. He always tried to answer when fate came calling. She was a harsh and fickle mistress, that one.

And so, with no real hope of success, he had sailed across the sea to a distant kingdom, heart in his hand—

Well, _something_ in his hand, anyway.

—looking for Mathias Shaw.

Fortunately for Flynn, the Gilneans weren’t simply throwing a _ball_. It was a Lunar Festival masquerade in honor of their kaldorei friends and their tireless efforts to aid the Gilnean people and to give thanks to Elune and so on and so on and some such nonsense. Flynn had really only skimmed from the gilded script on the card Taelia handed him. Frankly, it wasn’t his business or his concern, but it provided him with an opportunity, and that was all he needed.

He hadn’t seen much of Shaw since their first and last mission together in Zandalar. Oh, they passed each other on the wharf often enough, and on the rare occasion Shaw would even nod at him and acknowledge he existed, which was nice. But Flynn couldn’t get the good spymaster out of his mind. There had been something there, some spark between them, and not just the arcs of magical lightning that scored the tiles of the Zandalari treasury. But those too.

And then the war had come to a rather abrupt end, the Alliance had packed up their fancy ships and their newer, bigger, fancier ships, and set sail for home. It left Flynn rather in a lurch; he had intended to make a move on Shaw, assuming that the whole global war thing would work in his favor and keep the spymaster in his general vicinity for a time. So much for that.

Not that he had ever figured out just _how_ he would make said move. Shaw was as unapproachable as a—well, as _Shaw_. The man didn’t exactly lend himself to casual social interaction, what with his whole uptight, stoic, slightly-brooding demeanor. Not to mention all that armor. Usually Flynn would have offered to buy him a drink, made a few artful and highly flattering observations about how dashing and dangerous he was (stabby men like Shaw seemed to appreciate that), left a lingering touch or two… and then casually invited him to put his very neatly groomed and inviting mouth around Flynn’s cock.

Foolproof.

But, things being what they were, and Shaw being who he was, it had never happened. Flynn wasn’t certain the man had ever even set foot in a tavern, let alone willingly drank from a bottle anyone else might have touched. Flynn’s entire seduction technique more or less revolved around that one very specific sort of location, so without it he was at a total loss. Awkward smiles in passing didn’t seem to have quite the same magic.

Incidentally, attending a masquerade was no easy feat. Not for a man whose entire wardrobe had, up until recently, consisted of the same nine pieces of clothing. At the same time. (Wash day was always a bit of a nightmare, especially in the winter.) Unless his intention was to go in disguise as a slightly smelly pirate, he was out of luck. Fortunately, as always, Taelia stepped in to save him. She haggled and sweet-talked enough of the traders in Boralus to procure him a rather handsome set of clothes for the occasion, mask and all. He had been too grateful for words, really. Also completely unable to pay her back.

Sailing for the Eastern Kingdoms had been a bit nerve wracking, honestly. More than once Flynn had considered turning the _Middenwake_ around, and laying a course for somewhere he didn’t run the risk of having his heart torn out and mounted on a pike to ward off any other would-be suitors. But then, suddenly, he’d arrived. He was there, in Stormwind, where Shaw lived, worked, and presumably did other things, though Flynn couldn’t imagine what. Sleeping, possibly, although that had only brought to mind an image of a sullen Shaw perched on a ledge like a crow. Anyway, Flynn had his doubts that Shaw actually slept. He’d seen no evidence to suggest it.

Despite its lavish setting in the grand ballroom of Stormwind Keep, the evening was very much a Gilnean affair. King Anduin Wrynn was present, of course, constantly encircled by the other preening nobility, and easily identifiable in his dashing blue and gold suit and mask. It made sense, Flynn supposed, for the young ruler to single himself out as he’d done. He imagined it would be rather difficult to disguise that mop of golden hair, so why bother trying at all. But while Wrynn was occupying the upper crust, it was King Greymane who made his way through the milling guests and observed the dancers as they sashayed about the center of the room. He was the evening’s host, and clearly made every effort to live up to that responsibility.

Most of the guests were dressed in fine silks and furs, the gowns bejeweled and the suits embroidered so that everything in the room seemed to catch the light, giving the masquerade a dreamlike quality. He supposed that was the point. There were Lunar Festival decorations adorning the walls, much fancier than anything down in the city, and fireworks outside in every size and color. Flynn’s first turn around the room had revealed that most of the night elf guests were comfortably ensconced in the garden. The light was low, with only a few standing torches here and there to illuminate the path, but it was difficult to avoid catching sight of two dozen glowing white eyes. They were _night_ elves, after all. But if they sensed anything strange about him—like the lingering odor of seaweed—they showed no indication of it.

And why should they? He was gussied up so richly that he barely recognized _himself_. His coat was black wool, with a scooped tail and sharp, velvet lapels. Two rows of gleaming silver buttons were settled just over his waist on either side. Beneath it he wore a double-breasted, emerald green waistcoat, with its own wide lapels that gave way to a high-collared, black silk shirt. Together with a rather flattering pair of trousers and some very uncomfortable shoes, he cut quite a figure. Just not any figure he was at all familiar with. The whole ensemble was no less surreal for the mask that covered his face from his forehead down to his nose. It was made of stiff leather, painted gold and covered in thin black lace. The edges were adorned in onyx beads that gave it a dainty, scalloped appearance. More beads lined the eyes, casting them into shadow and further obscuring his identity.

But perhaps strangest of all, mainly by virtue of how rarely he had ever bothered to make the effort, his hair was down. _Really_ down. It fell around his shoulders, combed through and smooth, the rich auburn locks catching the light as easily as the jewels and gold embroidery adorning the other guests. Taelia had insisted he wash it free of all the salt and grime that went hand in hand with a life at sea. It wouldn’t do, she said, to get washed down and dressed up if his hair was a harpy’s nest. He gave in. He always gave in. At her insistence he’d even forgone wearing his favorite necklace, his (questionably) good luck charm, to complete the ensemble.

Now he was standing in the middle of a ballroom, lost in a sea of anonymous revelers, nursing a glass of white wine that had gone warm some time ago. He didn’t know what he was doing, at least apart from looking a little sexier than usual.

He just felt a bit… silly. Oh, he looked the part, and Tae had in fact sent him back twice to scrub himself down with some very aromatic soap, the scent of which still wafted around him every time he took a step. But despite all of the other elegant gowns, coats, and elaborate masks that surrounded him, he felt very much out of place. He wasn’t a noble, or even someone of note, and he’d only been allowed into Stormwind Keep by virtue of Taelia’s secondhand invitation. He didn’t know how to speak to these people, let alone hold a conversation with one of them long enough to determine if Shaw was even attending. Why he’d ever thought _Mathias Shaw_ of all people would bother with such a pointless, extravagant affair was a mystery he didn’t care to examine too closely. Stupidity, probably. Sheer stupidity. And more hope than one pirate-turned-not-entirely-a-pirate had any right to possess.

He was just about to cut his losses and return to the _Middenwake_ when a stranger caught his eye—rather, he caught the stranger’s eye. The man was watching him, expression unreadable beneath a full-face mask. Flynn stared back, and as he did the man gently cocked his head in a subtle gesture that could only really mean _come here_. And so, ever-curious, Flynn made his way through the crowd to where the mysterious beckoning stranger was waiting.

He was standing in a dark corner of the ballroom, partly obscured by the dancing shadows of the chandelier. Like most of the guests he was dressed in exquisite silk and velvet, but his clothes were far more fancifully decorated than Flynn’s. The cuffs of his dark blue coat were folded back, embroidered with coppery thread in an elaborate, looping design. The tails were long and cut at sharp angles, mirroring the lapels. More embroidery graced the points and seemed to crawl onto his shoulders like shimmering vines. Beneath it all he wore a black, single-breasted brocade waistcoat, and a matching shirt with the ruffled collar opened to reveal an inviting stretch of pale skin.

Quite an appealing second-place prize, all things considered. Only the mask, which covered even the stranger’s mouth, proved unappealing when viewed up close. It was snug to his face, and though the design was beautiful—pale white from the chin to the cheeks, where intricate, copper vines curled around and around until the mask appeared to be _made_ of metal—it was limiting in a way that Flynn found disappointing. He could hardly see the stranger’s eyes, and eyes had always held an allure he could never quite deny.

Still, things being what they were and all.

Flynn opened his mouth to introduce himself, but he was silenced with a gesture; the stranger put a gloved finger to the lips of his mask and nodded again in the direction of the dance floor, where couples were twirling about in time with the music.

That was… Hm.

Flynn hadn’t really come expecting to _dance_.

But the stranger seemed intent on it, and he took Flynn by the hand, drawing him across the room and dodging the other guests so deftly that Flynn wondered if he wasn’t clairvoyant. They reached the center of the room and Flynn abruptly found himself swept up in a firm embrace. It was hardly what he would call _proper_ dance etiquette, the way the stranger’s hand slipped just a bit south of his hip and he pressed himself to Flynn from the chest down. Evidently he had designs of his own for the evening, and Flynn suited them quite nicely.

They moved gracefully about the floor, and Flynn’s feet barely seemed to alight anywhere for more than a fraction of a second before he was whisked off in another direction. He was too distracted by the stranger’s inscrutable gaze to wonder if he was even dancing well. Though it hardly seemed to matter, judging by the warmth he could feel through the hand holding his, and the way the other man seemed determined to twine their bodies as closely as possible. It was a heady bit of movement they were engaged in, and Flynn briefly wondered if anyone else could see just what sort of blatant mating dance was taking place in the middle of the ballroom floor.

Then he stopped caring, and decided to enjoy it.

He’d come all this way, crossed the sea on a whim because he was infatuated with a man who barely knew he existed, only to find himself empty-handed and alone. Now a handsome stranger—well, he _acted_ handsome—was very clearly interested in something more than a single turn about the floor, and it seemed downright silly to deny himself the pleasure. He might as well get _something_ out of this exercise in futility.

So he threw himself into the dance, letting the surprisingly strong arms that held him lead the way. His fingers toyed with the stranger’s collar, tracing the stark line between black silk ruffles and creamy skin. It would be nice to touch, he thought. To smell. To _taste_. If not for the dizzying movement of their tandem whirling he might have leaned in to press his lips to the hollow of the stranger’s throat. After all, who was he tonight? Nothing more than another nameless, masked face among many. No one would know what he’d done, or who he’d done it with.

The hand resting just above his backside squeezed lightly, and Flynn rolled his hips just enough to be felt, but not seen. The reaction was immediate: the stranger made a hoarse sound that Flynn took to be a stifled groan. That was promising. He did lean in then as they slowed with the music, but pulled back before his mouth could make contact. The fierce want he could see in the stranger’s shadowed eyes made him feel hot and wicked, and he grinned.

It would have been better with Shaw. The sudden thought made him stumble, and he fell out of step. Shaw, he reminded himself resolutely, wasn’t here. Shaw was off cutting throats or poisoning drinks or taking advantage of the fifteen minutes once a year that he was permitted to sleep. Shaw had never raked his eyes over Flynn’s body, dark eyes lingering at his throat, his hunger evident in everything from the rise and fall of his shoulders to the heat of his gaze. Shaw barely knew who Flynn was. And that wasn’t his fault, but Flynn’s; he hadn’t taken the chance, hadn’t made the leap. The intractable spymaster he’d fallen for had slipped through his fingers, but he didn’t have to make the same mistake twice.

He had plenty of _other_ mistakes to make.

The stranger seemed to read his mind. He guided them both away from the dance floor, over to a corner just as shadowy as the last one. This time they were near an open set of double doors, and as Flynn watched the stranger cast a furtive glance at the other guests milling about nearby. Then he was once more being drawn away. Pulled somewhere by a hand that he hoped was as skillful as its owner.

They moved quickly through the halls and up the winding staircases, avoiding the guests who were obviously important enough to have been assigned rooms within the keep. More than once Flynn thought they might run headlong into a guard, but their route was surprisingly clear, almost as though it had been planned. Dumb luck was clearly on the side of the lonely tonight. Or maybe it really was Elune. Flynn had his doubts that celestial deities bothered much with the wanton lust of mere mortals—they probably had rather better things to do. But, then again, there was a sword sticking out of the planet. Everything was pretty much up in the air these days.

They reached a lonely corridor in a dark corner of the keep, and Flynn was only given a few seconds to wonder exactly which royal broom closet they were going to defile before he was spun around and pressed back against a door. He hit the wood with a breathless _oof!_ Hands groped every inch of him, no longer gloved but bare and hot and needy. He groaned and spread his thighs as wandering fingers palmed his erection through the thick wool of his trousers. They really needed to be naked to do this properly, he decided. And preferably somewhere an armed guard wouldn’t find them.

Flynn reached blindly for the door handle, finding it somewhere near his hip. He made a happy sound when the latch lifted and the door actually opened, and then they were stumbling inside, hands seeking hot skin wherever it was revealed. Flynn lost his coat, the stranger lost his boots. He tried to remove his mask, but a soft tutting and a shake of the head stopped him.

So, they were truly aiming for _anonymous_ sex, then. Well, he’d done worse before.

Much worse.

He was halfway through removing his shoes when the warmth of the body groping his disappeared, and before he could blink the stranger had dropped to his knees on the plush carpet. Flynn breathed out a surprised _oh_ and watched, wide-eyed, as his trousers were yanked open and his cock was pulled out. He was mostly hard, getting harder by the second, and it abruptly occurred to him that his nameless associate was still wearing a mask that blocked his mouth.

But that, he discovered very quickly and _very_ happily, was not to be a problem. The stranger shifted his mask enough to take Flynn’s cock in his mouth, and the sheer heat of it forced Flynn’s eyes to flutter shut. He let his head loll back on his shoulders, focused entirely on the drag of the stranger’s tongue, the softness of his cheeks, the way his wet lips tightened each time he pulled back before plunging down again. Flynn could hear him breathing hard through his nose, and somehow that was even more erotic than the sight of some amorous stranger enthusiastically sucking him off in an empty room in the king’s castle. Although that might have had more to do with the mask that stared up at him blankly, its eyes now empty without the man beneath.

He grasped a fistful of red hair and pushed his cock a little deeper, and the stranger made no attempt to stop him. Encouraged, Flynn began fucking his mouth, holding him with one hand in his hair and the other at the back of his neck, thrusting until he felt the first spasm around his length. It felt _incredible_. A bit more incredible than he could handle, actually. The raw, wet sound of it, the hands that clawed at his thighs, the sucking heat and pressure, all proved too much. It took embarrassingly little time to bring him up to the edge of orgasm, and he had no intention of doing that just yet.

With a gentle nudge, Flynn pulled out and moved the stranger away, watching as the mask was quickly lowered again. He supposed that was fair. After all, how many nobles wanted anyone to know that they spent their free time with a mouth stuffed full of cock. Probably only the fun ones.

He would have offered to return the favor, what with his own mouth being so conveniently exposed. In fact he was more than happy to take a turn. But the stranger stood up, and Flynn suddenly found himself being walked back until his knees collided with a bed, and he fell ungracefully onto the plush blankets. The stranger knelt between his feet and began methodically removing Flynn’s remaining clothes, stopping every so often to trace his fingers over a scar, or follow the sensitive dip between his abdomen and his thigh until it reached the soft hair between his legs. Each touch was slow, almost reverent, and Flynn was beginning to wonder if there was something more to this tawdry little liaison than simple sex.

When he felt warm fingers wrap around the slick base of his shaft he stopped wondering. He stopped thinking almost entirely, in fact. The touch made him shiver, and he couldn’t seem to stop his hips from bucking uselessly, seeking more and more as the fingers trailed up to the tip of his cock and then back down again, pumping him slowly before disappearing once more. It was maddening. He wanted to beg, to scream _just fuck me already!_ But that wasn’t the game they were playing, and as agonizing as it was to wait, ending it too soon was unthinkable.

It was a few more minutes of delicious torture before Flynn realized that he was now entirely naked save for his mask, and his partner, such as he was, still had most of his own clothes on. Only his boots and coat had been discarded, though his trousers were open. He was stroking himself through the fabric, kneeling between Flynn’s legs as he pushed his palm against his cock, breathing so hard that Flynn could hear it behind the mask.

The only silent invitation he could offer was to lie back and spread his legs wide.

That seemed to do the trick; he caught another choked-off sound, and watched a slight tremor roll through the figure kneeling over him. Hands smoothed along the insides of his thighs, all the way to his hips. With a light pat he was prompted to raise them, and a pillow was shoved in place beneath him, leaving him even more open and exposed than before. He shivered. There was no fire in the room, not even a candle to provide them with a little light. The only illumination came from the moonlight glittering through the windows, and it was barely more than enough to give them some idea of what they were doing.

The stranger must have noticed his discomfort, because he abruptly stood up and crossed the room, seeking matches from a silver box on the nearby mantel. He set a fire in the hearth, and as the logs caught and began to burn a glow filled the room, bringing with it welcome heat. 

When he rejoined Flynn on the bed he knelt slowly beside him, running a hand up the center of his abdomen, over his chest and up to his throat. His fingers plunged into Flynn’s hair, pulling lightly at the soft tresses, winding it around and around until he had a tight grip. With his free hand he tugged at the last of the buttons on his trousers until there was room for his cock to spring free. Then he pulled Flynn close. The tug was gentle at first, and more insistent when Flynn responded too slowly. He guided Flynn’s mouth onto his cock, feeding it to him an inch at a time, and Flynn thought he might come just from that. He could hear the stranger grunting quietly each time Flynn took him a little bit deeper, until he gagged, and felt an unmistakable throb between his lips. So Flynn did it again. He swallowed him until his throat started to close reflexively, then pulled back and started again. The hand twisted against his scalp was no longer guiding him, but simply holding on.

Flynn reached down to tug at his own cock, still damp and smearing precome onto his stomach. He stroked himself slowly, moving his hand in time with his mouth as he sucked the stranger until he was trembling. He could have let him come like that, and would have swallowed everything he was given quite happily, but as before, he was stopped. The hand in his hair gave a sharp tug, and Flynn pulled off with a wet pop that made the stranger shudder and blow out a harsh breath behind his mask.

Evidently it was time to move things along.

Flynn’s stomach fluttered as the stranger moved to kneel between his knees. He had produced a bottle of something slick—from where he didn’t bother to guess, all that mattered was that he _had_ it—and dipped his fingers into the viscous oil to coat them. Flynn felt the first touch between his legs and closed his eyes. He willed himself to relax, and not to think about who it was he’d rather watch moving between his thighs. One finger became two. The movements stayed slow and steady. A thumb appeared to slowly knead the sensitive spot just behind his balls, and he whimpered.

He was panting by the time the fingers withdrew, and he lifted his head to see the masked stranger, still mostly clothed, shuffle closer to press the head of his glistening cock against Flynn’s very relaxed hole. He groaned and let his head fall back, arching as the stranger pushed into him. His fingers found the bedspread and he pulled, desperate for anything to gain some leverage against the relentless, steady drive into the deepest parts of him. It was bliss and it was torture. He had to remind himself over and over to breathe, to stay relaxed and open.

The stranger was as deep as he could go before he pulled back and thrust forward again. It wasn’t a sharp movement, not fast, but _powerful_. Flynn could only imagine the muscles that flexed and strained beneath the clothing that obscured them, the sweat building on his skin. He reached for the stranger’s vest to undo his buttons and find something to touch, but his hand was caught in a firm grip and drawn up to the mask. He stroked the softest part of Flynn’s wrist with the side of his cheek, where there was just a bit of exposed skin and stubble, before gently guiding it back down to where Flynn’s cock was bobbing against his stomach. Flynn took the hint.

Slow and powerful thrusts soon became short, punchy motions that left Flynn gasping. It seemed like every other stroke hit just the right spot to make his vision blur. He threw his head back and arched his neck, and a broken sound burst from his throat as the stranger braced his hand beside Flynn’s head and rocked into him even harder than before, forcing Flynn to reach up and push against the headboard. It was almost perfect, almost enough to help him over the climb, but there was something missing. Something he needed.

He wanted a kiss.

Just one kiss, something to make it more than a dirty one-off on a cold winter night. He wanted to taste a little more of the man on top of him, inside him, filling his senses everywhere but there. Arching off the bed, Flynn reached up to pull him close, hoping he would understand the hunger that was burning him up and making him delirious with need. His fingers slipped into the stranger’s hair as they came together, caught the satin ribbon at the back of the mask, and before Flynn realized what was happening the bow was undone, and the gold and white mask had slipped off the stranger’s face and toppled to the bed beside them.

Only he wasn’t a stranger at all.

Everything stopped. Flynn forgot to breathe until his mind caught up to what he was seeing— _who_ he was seeing—and he let out a strangled cry.

It was Shaw looking down at him. Staring, wide-eyed and mouth agape, his skin flushed pink and sweat beading his brow and temples beneath the fringe of his hair. No longer shadowed by the mask, his green eyes were bright and so familiar that Flynn couldn’t keep himself from staring.

Somehow, in the midst of the most surreal and terrifying moment of his life, Flynn found the sense to reach behind his head and pull the ribbon on his own mask. He lifted it from his face and tossed it aside, and Shaw’s eyes managed to widen even further.

Neither of them said anything. Now that they could speak there seemed to be no words. Shaw’s expression quickly settled into something more familiar, more guarded, and he started to pull back. Flynn was so caught up in the endless loop of reconciling that Mathias Shaw was _actually inside him_ , that he didn’t realize until it was almost too late. He quickly tightened his thighs around Shaw’s waist and hooked his legs around his back, hoping to stop him. Shaw froze. He watched Flynn for a few seconds, as unreadable as ever.

And then he pushed into him again.

Flynn nearly shouted in joy, but he settled for a surprised gasp as he lifted his own hips to meet Shaw’s thrusts. He reached up to pull Shaw down to him again, crushing their mouths together, teeth scraping over lips as Shaw plunged into him over and over, faster and faster.

“Shaw,” Flynn hissed against his mouth, “yes…”

Shaw sat up again, ignoring Flynn’s whimper. “Spread your legs,” he ordered roughly. Flynn obeyed without hesitation, and was rewarded with Shaw’s hands beneath his thighs and several swift, hard thrusts that punched the air from his lungs. Shaw groaned each time, punctuated by the harsh motion of his hips, and then he gave up again and fell onto his hands over Flynn, breathing hard as he continued to rock against him.

Flynn tried to say something, to make himself tell Shaw how much he’d wanted this. How _long_ he’d wanted it. But he was interrupted by a curse and a confession he was in no way prepared to receive.

“I’ve wanted you,” Shaw said, breathing the words into the air between them. “Since the first time I saw you. Couldn’t—stop thinking about you.” He clenched his teeth and growled, and then he came, and Flynn was too stunned to do more than lie back and watch as Shaw went through a series of emotions he hadn’t ever seen the spymaster display before. Hadn’t even known he was _capable_ of. Everything from a pinched and almost angry furrow to slack-jawed bliss. But most rewarding of all was the small, lazy smile he gave Flynn when it was over.

He huffed out a sigh and gingerly pulled out, sitting back on his heels. Flynn watched mutely as he struggled to calm his breathing and undoubtedly his heart. He was a strange sight, in his black brocade vest and silk shirt. Flynn had never imagined he would see him in proper pants, let alone the rich, deep blue trousers that were still bunched around his hips. Sweat slicked his skin and his hair was in a right state.

Debauched and breathless was an altogether delicious look on him, really.

“Shaw,” Flynn said. He cleared his throat and wiggled his hips just a bit. His erection, as-yet unsatisfied, swayed between them.

Shaw actually _grinned_ , and then without a warning he dove down between Flynn’s legs, swallowing him nearly whole in one go. Flynn hissed and bowed at the waist, clutching the back of Shaw’s head and holding him down. Shaw obliged him and sucked harder, and Flynn was sure the litany of foul curses that poured from his lips was nothing compared to the cry he let out when he shot his load into Shaw’s throat.

He fell back again with a hoarse groan, pressing his palms to his face. “I can’t believe it was you the whole time,” he said.

Shaw grunted in agreement. When Flynn peered at him through his fingers he was smoothing out his mustache. He wiped his lips and chin on his sleeve and Flynn felt an uncomfortable pang of arousal. It was not _nearly_ time for round two.

Oh, he really hoped there would be a round two. He watched as Shaw unbuttoned his vest and shirt and slipped out of them, followed by his pants and underclothes. He had an alarming number of small knives strapped to his person. Flynn supposed he’d gone light on weaponry for the occasion.

When he settled down on the bed next to Flynn, it seemed those prayers for a repeat performance had been answered. Flynn waited silently as Shaw made himself comfortable, finding his way under a blanket and pulling it up over the two of them. It was strangely intimate, given that they were currently in some stranger’s room.

Actually…

“Hey, not to wreck the afterglow or anything, but—”

“Shh.” Shaw’s eyes were closed and his head was half-buried in the pillow, but he reached up to put a finger against Flynn’s lips. He missed, hit his cheek first, then his nose, and finally managed to hit the target. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

“I hadn’t realized this was a morning-after sort of deal,” Flynn said. He wasn’t entirely opposed to it, either.

Shaw opened his eyes a fraction and looked at him. “You know the way out?”

“You’re really asking me that? Mate, I don’t even know how we got here.” He certainly didn’t know how to avoid the patrols, which had likely been coordinated _by_ Shaw. Anyone else and he might have risked it, but despite all evidence to the contrary, he was no fool.

Shaw made a _hmph_ sound and snuggled into his pillow. “Then we’ll talk in the morning,” he said very matter-of-factly.

Well, Flynn supposed, things being what they were, he couldn’t really complain.

  
He didn’t sleep much. He wasn’t tired after sex, that was the problem. With most men it was literally come-and-go, but Flynn always felt a bit energized by the whole process. That made lying next to a very soundly snoring spymaster a bit of an ordeal. It did give him plenty of time to think, though.

These were the facts:

Shaw hadn’t known it was him before he removed his mask.

Shaw wanted him. Had wanted him for some time, if his impromptu mid-thrust confession was to be believed.

Shaw had specifically chosen a man for an anonymous tryst whose features at least somewhat resembled Flynn’s. After all, a good half of his face was visible despite the mask.

The only conclusion Flynn could therefore draw was that Shaw had been hoping to find him at the masquerade. Perhaps convinced it was improbable, or even impossible—after all, what would a pirate from Kul Tiras be doing at a noble’s ball in Stormwind?—but hoping nonetheless.

For some reason that thought made him inexplicably horny.

Morning was creeping over the windows of the keep when Flynn finally decided Shaw had slept enough. He rolled over and pressed himself up against Shaw’s side, rolling his hips to tease his own growing erection to full hardness. His lips sought the splash of freckles on Shaw’s shoulder, and his fingers slipped beneath the blanket to gently pinch his nipples.

He heard Shaw draw a breath through his nose, and then, with his eyes still closed, he said, “I know you saw how many knives I have on me.”

“I take it you’re not a morning person.”

“Only when I have to be.”

Flynn stretched a leg across Shaw’s thigh and rocked against him a little harder. “Does this count?”

Shaw finally opened one eye and looked at Flynn. He hummed in thought and craned his neck to look down; Flynn followed his line of sight to find the blanket tented by Shaw’s very obvious answer.

“Oh good.”

Shaw fucked him again, this time while he stood beside the bed with Flynn’s ankles on his shoulders, pounding into him like he was trying to find the other side of Azeroth. Flynn writhed as much as the position would allow, tugging at the sheets and moaning, fisting his own cock until he came all over himself. Shaw had one hand around Flynn’s knees to hold them together and one hand on his mouth, but rather than trying to silence him it seemed he was only interested in touching. His thumb traced Flynn’s lower lip, dipping in to press against his tongue. He muttered surprisingly sweet praise and encouragement right up until his voice broke on a groan and he came, pinning Flynn to the bed, pumping deep into him.

Flynn let his legs fall from Shaw’s shoulders and took a long, shuddering breath. “I could use a drink,” he said.

“I think we could both use something to eat.”

On cue, Flynn’s stomach rumbled, and he smacked it lightly. “Quiet, you.”

“We can’t stay here anyway,” Shaw went on to explain. “This part of the keep isn’t used often, but the next shift will block our way out if we don’t leave soon.”

He was over on the other side of the bed, retrieving his clothes. Flynn craned his neck to look up at him. Yup, just as attractive upside-down. “I have some questions,” he said.

“Make them quick.”

“For starters, is this your room? I assume it isn’t, what with the whole clandestine escape you’ve got planned. If not, whose room is it? We ought to leave them a note of apology, I think. Do you live in the keep? Did you mean what you said last night—you know, about how long you’ve wanted this to happen? Assuming your answer is yes, how long do we get to _keep_ doing it? Can we do it again soon? Did you have any idea that I fancied you as well? And lastly, do you have anywhere in mind for breakfast?”

Shaw watched him for a moment, back to the nearly unreadable mask—his usual one, rather than the painted leather he’d worn last night. Then his mouth quirked up in a small half-smile, and he said, “No, I don’t know, no, yes, as long as you want, maybe after breakfast, I had my hopes, and yes. There’s a cafe in the Mage Quarter I think you might like. They serve chocolate buns.”

“I like all of those answers, especially the buns.”

Shaw snorted, and Flynn rolled over so he could reach out and swat at him. “You child,” he accused. “Here I am being very mature, and you’re giggling over buns.”

“Clothe your buns, Flynn.” Shaw tossed him his pants, and they landed across his chest.

“Oh, we’re using first names already, I like this.”

  
Shaw led them through the keep, once more avoiding the guards with all the precision of a man who had told those very guards exactly where to stand. It was a bit less impressive with those facts in mind, honestly. Of course, Flynn had his doubts that the SI:7 spymaster would be unwelcome anywhere, but a walk of shame out of the keep following a fancy masquerade was unlikely to be the sort of behavior becoming of a man of his position. It made sense that he’d want to avoid scrutiny.

They rounded a corner coming down what Shaw assured him was the final set of stairs—Flynn had lost track of where they were two turns and a corridor back—and promptly ran right into someone else.

Not just someone else. The king.

“Oh, Master Shaw!” King Wrynn exclaimed, stepping back to keep from spilling what he was carrying. He sounded surprised, but not quite in the way Flynn would have expected. That was interesting. “Good morning.” He looked from Shaw to Flynn, gave both men a quick once-over, and arched an eyebrow curiously. “Spymaster?” he prompted.

Shaw actually shuffled from foot to foot, which was adorable, but also a dead giveaway that he was doing something he shouldn’t. Evidently this wasn’t a problem he had been prepared to deal with. “King Anduin. Captain Fairwind here was making a report,” he said, not at all convincingly. “Well just be on our way—”

“In those clothes?”

Flynn looked at Shaw, who looked at him, and shrugged. “That’s… how he dresses, Your Majesty.”

It was such a terrible lie that even the king looked disappointed, but Shaw said it with so much casual conviction that it almost seemed enough to turn the situation in his favor. Almost.

“That’s fine,” Flynn muttered lightly under his breath, “I always wanted to see the inside of the Stockade.” He cleared his throat and thrust his hand out, offering it to the king. “Your Majesty,” he said, chipper and bright as the morning sun. “Hello, name’s Flynn Fairwind. Honored to make your acquaintance.” Shaw was nearly vibrating with tension beside him, but Flynn pushed on, ignoring the threatening looks and wildly twitching jaw. “Lovely keep you have here, beautiful city. Question: is that _two_ glasses of wine you’re carrying?”

The king looked down at his hands. Shaw looked down at the king’s hands. Flynn smiled.

“Well,” the king cleared his throat, “it seems you have everything under control. Have a… good day, Master Shaw. Captain—uh—”

“Fairwind.”

“Yes.”

And that was that.

They left the king and made it all the way to the end of another hall before Flynn found himself abruptly yanked aside, into the shadows of a curtained alcove. His back hit the wall and knocked the question out of his mouth, only to have it quickly replaced by Shaw’s tongue. He kissed Flynn until they were both breathless, panting into each others’ mouths, arms tangled in coats and fingers searching beneath layers of silk and velvet.

Flynn pulled back and gasped. “Oh, this is _so_ much easier without the masks, we should have just done away with those from the start.”

“Quiet.”

“Okay.”

Shaw kissed him until his lips became lost, making their way to Flynn’s throat and wandering around to the sensitive spot just behind his ear. “I have some questions,” he muttered, mimicking Flynn’s earlier tone. His fingers tickled at the small of Flynn’s back before sliding around to dip into the front of his trousers.

“Okay, but—” Flynn stifled a moan, “—make it quick.”

“Why did you come to Stormwind?” Shaw bit down lightly on the soft flesh of Flynn’s earlobe, making him shudder.

“You,” Flynn breathed, searching for more to touch. He wanted everything. “I’ll save you time; the answer to every question is _you_.”

Shaw punched out a curse that probably wasn’t appropriate for anywhere in Stormwind Keep. He sank to his knees for the second time since their encounter in the ballroom, and Flynn silently thanked the Tidemother, the Light, Elune, and anyone else who might be listening. His mouth was just as hot and slick as Flynn remembered, and even better this time because he _knew_. He knew whose mouth was on him, whose tongue was swirling around the head of his cock, tasting him. He left his hands at his sides this time, keeping his fists balled to stop himself from grabbing Shaw’s hair, though he desperately wanted to.

“Aren’t—aren’t there more guards?” Flynn whispered, sort of hoping he was wrong. But Shaw hummed an affirmative, and once he steadied his knees again Flynn asked, “Shouldn’t we go?”

Shaw pulled off him and licked his lips. “Probably.”

Then he went right back to what he’d been doing, and Flynn stopped asking questions.

  
After they finished up in the alcove—which took a ridiculously short time on Flynn’s part, he was _not_ proud of that—they made their way to the main corridor, where the vaulted double doors stood wide open, allowing sunlight to pour into the keep. It was a crisp day; winter in Stormwind didn’t seem much more offensive than a typical spring in Tiragarde. Flynn took a deep breath and stretched. Now that he was no longer under the looming threat of arrest, he could actually enjoy how good he felt. Expected aches and well-earned discomforts aside, of course.

Beside him Shaw was wrapping his coat more tightly around himself. “Would think you’d welcome to chill, with all the heat you’ve been putting off,” Flynn said. He gave Shaw a lecherous wink, and received a frown in return.

“I’d like to change, if you don’t mind a quick detour into Old Town.”

“Your place?” Flynn asked.

Shaw hummed a yes, and received another look laden with innuendo. He shook his head. “Not in public.”

“Not yet, anyway. I’ll need at _least_ a pint and two more evenings like that under my belt before I’ll commit to public nudity.”

Shaw chuckled, and Flynn was treated to another genuine smile. “So, change of clothes before breakfast?” Shaw confirmed.

“Sounds good to me.”

“Buns?”

Flynn leaned back to take a long look at Shaw’s rear. “They look fine from where I'm standing.” When he stood up straight again Shaw was glaring at him. “You know, I think I like that I can actually _see_ how difficult it is for you to resist me. It’s right there,” he said, pointing at Shaw’s eye. “That little wrinkle.”

“I’m leaving,” Shaw said, doing just that. “Unless you know the way on your own, I suggest you follow.”

“You know I don’t know the way,” Flynn complained, bounding down the steps to catch up. “I’ve never been here before!”

Shaw tossed him a look that Flynn was quickly coming to realize held a great deal more mischief than he’d ever expected of the good spymaster. _Very_ interesting. “Well,” he said, “I guess you’d better follow, then.”

So Flynn followed.

Quite something for a first-place prize, really.


End file.
